


Twenty Minutes; Cross My Heart

by sambastian



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/M, Lots of tears, Sorry again, angst and sadness mostly, not a major character death but allison is dead here sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-11
Updated: 2014-04-11
Packaged: 2018-01-18 22:36:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1445383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sambastian/pseuds/sambastian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lydia has a hard time coping with Allison's death and finds refuge and solace in Stiles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Twenty Minutes; Cross My Heart

The shock on the sheriff’s face makes her regret her decision. She’d lied to her mother and said she was going to Allison’s, spending the night there, and it frightened her, how she could forget so easily that her best friend was dead. Her mother didn’t refuse the lie; she sighed and let Lydia be on her way.

Wringing her hands, she purses her lips. “Hi, Sheriff,” she says. There’s an odd roughness to her voice, one that comes with the threat of tears, but she’s stronger than that. She swallows her fear and guilt and morose, grief-stricken demeanor, chalks up a saddened smile.

With a smile akin to hers, the Sheriff lets her in; there isn’t much resistance these days when it comes to the pack. Aside from her own parents, everyone knows what the pack means, how it feels to be included into something so important. Losing Allison really was just like losing a limb. She had to refrain from removing her phone from her pocket and dialing the brunette’s number all too many times in the span of just a couple days. It would take a lot of getting used to; a lot of sleepless nights filled with the echoes of her screams, clutching the sheets in her balled up fists (she’s still in awe that her vocal chords haven’t shattered into nothing).

"You here for Stiles?" the Sheriff asks and Lydia is surprised at herself, that’s she’s even here at all. She should be with Scott, with Isaac, at home with her own mother. It wasn’t as though she could forget the hold of Stiles’ weak frame, the way he held onto her, protecting her, even though it was well known he couldn’t survive much more torture. Lydia blinks rapidly, focusing her vision on Mr. Stilinski. "Yes; I know it’s late and I’m sorry, but—"

"He’s upstairs.” The Sheriff sighs and to Lydia, it’s from exhaustion more than annoyance against her presence in the house. For that, she’s grateful. “Hasn’t said much since he walked in, but you can see him if you want."

Lydia knows, even then, how hard it must be for the Sheriff to accept her into their home like this, uninvited and so soon; the Sheriff hasn’t had real time with his son in weeks and here she was, selfishly digging into their time together, because she was alone and worried, and the hold he’d kept on her for the entire night left a ghost she couldn’t wash away with the scalding hot spray of her shower.

"Is he—" she breaks off, thinking  _'still Stiles'_  will come off crass and insensitive, so she stutters for a moment before supplying, “—okay?”

The Sheriff seems to understand without missing a beat. There are lines of worry and exhaustion that mar his handsome face, and Lydia wishes there was more she could do for this family, for the brokenness it seems to ooze.

"Fine, I think. Like I said, he hasn’t said much. I don’t really expect him to. Go see him, I don’t mind. I’ll be in the dining room if you need anything."

Just as he finishes expelling the last of his speech, Lydia rushes forward, tightens her arms around him. He hugs her back, warm and real, just like a father should be. She can’t help but shiver as she remembers her own father’s embraces; cold and rare.

He gives her a tired smile and Lydia, by this point, is fighting tears she knows he notices. She doesn’t say another word as she climbs the wooden stairs, the creaks underneath her feet easing the strong pull in her stomach. Familiarity.

It’s a while that she stands in front of Stiles’ bedroom door. She knows who she is to him, knows what she  _means_  to him. It never occurred to her that she was on the verge of losing her own mind as she watched Stiles ready the Oni’s sword against his middle to pierce himself through.

It’s starling to think that everything had come down to that specific moment in her life. Where he  _figured it out,_ held her like his life depended on it. They were all okay; she’d even smiled when Stiles woke up after he’d fainted, sighing with relief. She could feel her heart squeeze, her throat close up, and then it was the whole world aligning when he opened his eyes. She hears the echo of Scott’s voice in her head, murmuring that they were, in fact, quite okay.

She’s overcome with the courage to knock on the door. She hears Stiles call out, “Yeah?” and she takes it as an invitation. Turning the knob, she pushes the door open and walks through. Stiles is lying face down on his bed, half hidden under a pile of blankets. He’s turned away from her and there’s a thrill that shoots down her back, clambering down rapidly and dispersing through her whole body; she wants to lay with him and make sure he’s still whole in the morning.

"Dad?"

Stiles eyes meet hers after his body shifts to face her. She just stands there, lips pressed in a hard line. Her feet hurt from her heels, her knees are skinned and there’s a nest of hair on the top of her head. She knows they almost died (there’s no way she can forget it) but she’s still conscious of how she looks, sure that there are tear tracks down her cheeks, her eyes puffy and red, cheeks splotched with haphazard color.

Surprise strikes the features in Stiles’ face. “Oh. Lydia,” she hears him murmur, and her body, commandeered by violent tremors, crumples to the ground, but he’s there to catch her before she slams the floor of his bedroom. His arms are tight around her and she’s sobbing hard with reckless abandon. She should stop because grieving had always been something she’d done alone. But Scott had Isaac, had his mother. Stiles had the sturdiness of his father. She had no one close enough to expel all of the guilt she had; she couldn’t to her mother, not without leaving out the most important pieces of the puzzle she didn’t know existed. There was no one to tell her it wasn’t her fault; that she didn’t refrain from trying hard enough. God, she’d done _everything_  she could have to save Allison. Knowing her best friend was dead was the last thing she’d ever expected to experience. She’d never been one to feel the need for self-sacrifice, never ventured down that path, but she could give herself up for Allison, would choose to if she had the chance, if she had the  _choice_.

She’s hollow inside, dark twisted clouds of anguish and agony, reminiscent of when she saw Jackson die in front of her. But unlike Jackson, she didn’t have the satisfaction of getting Allison back. Someone had left her, and there was nothing to hold onto.

 _Stiles_. Stiles was there, she could hear his gentle murmuring break through her gasps and wrecking sobs, could hear him try to calm her though his voice was hoarse and harsh, it sounded vibrant and alive. This was the boy she knew, the boy she trusted, and she held back just as tightly.

With her head leaning on his shoulder, he had a view of his wall, red strings and all, and she tried to focus on that night, wrapping the colored string around her fingers while Stiles untangled it and held her hands instead. The way he looked at her, eyes glassy and hyper focuses on her; she knows he’s in love with her. She doesn’t want to think about that, because she also knows he could get bored very soon, leave her behind. She would never be okay again if she lost another person.

She cries for a long while, lets it all fall out of her, and Stiles never makes a move other than to hold her even tighter. Her voice makes decisions for her, her mouth opens and she finds herself saying, “I shouldn’t be here, I have to go,” but she was still in Stiles’ embrace, being held, and she doesn’t want to leave at all. She needs something to hold onto, and never had she thought it would be the boy with a wild, un-tame-able high school crush on her.

There’s a long drag of time, after her sobs have subsided, that silence blankets them. She’s warm, exhausted, and she could use an abundance of days to sleep, to drown out the chaos with a deep slumber. She’s wide awake though, thoughts mulling through her head, no pause or stop, just a fast-forward she can’t control. She hadn’t noticed, but Stiles had wiped all of her tears away, be it with the cotton of his pajama shirt, or the calloused tips of his fingers.

Inside of her, there is a war; she should get up a leave. Stiles is fine, alive, and seemingly whole. That’s what she’d wanted to know, the reason behind stepping into the Stilinski household in the first place. But she knows her own home, though beautiful, it’s cold, sharp, nothing there could console her the way this boy seems to do. It scares her, how comfortable she is with his arms wrapped around her. She’d had this in Allison, in Jackson, and it proves to do nothing but remind her of what’s she’s lost.

“God, I’m so stupid,” she mutters finally, and Stiles is shushing her again, and she could almost crack a smile at the way he shakes his head. He’s biased; the love he holds for her doesn’t allow him to think of her as anything less than perfect, though it should, considering the fact it’s heavily unrequited.  _Was_?

Lydia tears herself from those thoughts, catches onto the last words Stiles says, and she looks up at him, his eyes still darkened with sheer exhaustion, and borrows his vision as he continues talking. She stares into her eyes

“… Okay? Lydia?”

And she nods, despite not having heard what he’d said to her. He laughs. “You weren’t listening, were you?” he asks her, and despite all of what’s happened to  _him_ , he looks as comfortable as ever. And it makes her heart swell and subside, want to ask him so many questions synonymous with  _Are you okay?_  Yet, she doesn’t, just shakes her head and cracks a smile for him.

His fingers smooth over her cheek. It’s affectionate, so sweet, warms her bones. He tucks a fallen lock of hair behind her ear. “I said I was going to check on my dad and I’d be back in a second.” He’s smiling but the worry in his face makes her heart sink. He’s worried about her; she doesn’t deserve that.

She nods, braces herself for the chill she feels when he’s no longer wrapped around her like a second skin. When she’s alone, she does her best to keep to herself, though it can’t be helped if she drags herself off her feet and underneath the sheets that smell like the boy who holds her.

The pull for sleep is strong; part of her wonders what’s taking Stiles so long to return to her. She throws back the blanket, thinks it’s a bit rude to clamber into his bed with her heels still on. In his absence, Lydia takes it upon herself to conduct a search. She only needs a t-shirt, maybe a pair of shorts if she’s lucky. She finds something old, where the graphics have long since faded, and there’s a hole or two near the edge of the hemline. It wad tucked away in a corner of the second drawer in his dresser, and she couldn’t help but think that maybe it was his favorite, the reasoning behind its wear and tear.

Her best friend is dead and she’s thinking about t-shirts.

Fighting tears that threaten her, she yanks off the dress and jacket she wore, figuring Stiles would have no problem kicking her out if she’d overstayed her welcome. She knew he wouldn’t; he could get sick of her tears though, decide his own grief was too much to add hers onto it.

The shirt didn’t cover up much, but it felt better than the dress. In another drawer, she finds shorts, and pulls them up over her hips. They’re slightly big, draping over her tiny frame. She could sink into his clothes, disappear for a while.  She sat on the edge of Stiles bed and pulled out her hair tie, reddish-gold tresses falling about her shoulders. She combs her fingers through them, ignoring the way the strands snagged in the brokenness of her nails. She’d get a new manicure the next day, call Allison—

She’d do it herself, a form of therapy while she filed, polishe’d and tidied up her hands. A new color would do some good. The blood red reminds her too much (she tries to forget and sometimes she does, but just for seconds, before she’s tumbling back into memories again).

She undoes the buckles of her heels, pulling apart straps and setting the shoes by his desk, where her clothes lay on a neatly folded pile. She’s standing in the middle of his room unsure of what to do with herself. When Stiles is back, he’s stopped in the door and Lydia spin to look at him. There’s surprise written all over his face, and he blinks far too rapidly to make out anything else. “Oh, Lydia,” he says, just like before, only there isn’t any sadness at all. She can pretend she doesn’t hear the difference in his voice, but deep inside of her, she burns like wildfire with the way he stares at her.

"Glad to see you made yourself comfortable." Stiles walks in. He’s carrying a bottle of water that he hands her, and she takes it, unscrewing the cap and taking a long, ungraceful drink.  She wishe’d that it wasn’t water, but the burn of vodka to aid her in forgetting. Or maybe Stiles could do that all on his own. She sets the empty bottle on his desk.

He’s standing in front of her, reaching for her hand. She doesn’t mistake the weariness on his face, doesn’t downplay the deep purple color under his eyes or the fact that he hasn’t regained his healthy color back. He looks frail, like he could break underneath her if she decides to hold on too tightly.

"Told my dad you went home, which was stupid, since your car in the driveway. I don’t think he believed me though. He was already asleep at the table anyway." Stiles gives her a small smile.

She returns it, despite the heaviness she feels.  Stiles holds one of her hands in his, leads her to the bed. He lets her sit first, so she does, perched in the middle with her legs crossed underneath her. She spreads the blankets over her lap because she’s cold, because it’s comfortable. When Stiles follows, he’s lying down on his stomach, head resting over his crossed arms. Lydia fingers through her hair, twisting the ends.

Turning to look down at him, she clears her throat. “I think he gets it, even though he knows you’re lying,” Lydia offers. It’s the same reason Lydia’s mother let her leave when she said she was on her way Allison’s for the night. Because Allison was a part of them and it was going to get worse before anything better could happen.

Stiles looks at her, eyes dark, exhaustion coating his features. “It’s over—finally over—and I feel hollow.”

Concern drowns Lydia and she finds herself sliding down the length of the bed to tuck her body in next to his. She knows what he’s feeling, understands it. “Panic attacks?”

Stiles shakes his head. “No, I’m pretty sure panic attacks require you to feel things, and I can’t feel anything. I know what to do and what to say, but feeling—I just can’t. And even if I did, I wouldn’t want to.”

He’s had some _thing_  inside of him for god knows how many days, weeks. She can imagine it wore him thin. She’s amazed he’s still functioning.

She wraps her body around his, arm over his back and her leg hitched over her hip. In the way they lay, their faces are close. She can see the way his eyes water, feel his body shake underneath hers. She doesn’t think it’s that he’s not feeling anything; he’s feeling too much, more than he knows what do with. So she holds him, like he did her, and lets him cry.

There’s the echo of her words that spill from his mouth _. God, I’m so stupid_ , and Lydia wants to yank that thought away from this brilliant, beautiful boy. He misses Allison just like she does, just like Scott does. The hand between their bodies reaches for Stiles face. It’s uncomfortable the way she reaches, but she wants to push away the tears.

He clears his throat, eyes staring back at her. “You could have gone to anyone else, Lydia. Why me?”

A question she didn’t know how to answer. It must be evident in the way she recoils in the blankets without taking her eyes off of him. But he shifts, and her body is lying beneath his.  She wracks her brain for an explanation, for a reason to act upon the desire to have Stiles wholly love her, physically mend her with the brushing of his lips and the possessiveness of his hands. She searches for a while to figure out why she came to Stiles.

"Because you were the only person I felt that would need me back. Because I knew you’d be able to pull me back if anything happened to me. Because I knew you’d never say no if I asked you to hold me too tight."

It’s more than a hint. It’s more than just Lydia and Stiles happening in a bed. It’s buried deep in her, lighting her soul into abrupt, feral flames.

She catches her breath, looking straight up at him. “Because  right now you mean more to me than anyone else does. When I fall asleep alone, I feel empty, because you held me so close all night, and I knew you were ready to die for me, for Scott, for _everyone_ , and when I realized that, I wanted to be so selfish and never let you come anywhere near close to dying.” she’s choking on her breath, tears leaking from her eyes, but Stiles’ face softens, and there’s nothing but adoration in his eyes for her. “I can’t live in a world where you don’t exist, Stiles.”

When he kisses her, Lydia swears it wipes away any doubts, any guilt, numbs the searing pain she feels for Allison, and allows her a clear mind. She appreciates the way he enhances her focus so when she kisses back it mirrors all the love he has for her.

But it’s only for a moment. Stiles pulls away completely and the rejection she feels is prominent, the kind of pain she isn’t used to, and it hurts so badly. Stiles says something before she can succumb to tears again.

"Lydia," he murmurs from where he’s lying next to her. She can’t turn to look at him. "Lydia, I don’t think you understand how— _God_ —how I feel about you. Since the third grade I’ve cared about you. There’s no one else but you. But Allison is dead, and you’re here and it should make me feel good, like finally, you know? But we can’t start something because she  _died_.”

It’s that, yes, she can admit, but it’s more than that. It’s before, the way her center is always being pulled at, the way she feels like she isn’t completely whole without Stiles by her side. It’s scary, and she can’t lose the possibility of him being hers completely.

"But you’re saying maybe?" She whispers.

Despite how worn he looks, his face lights up and Lydia could swear she’s never thought a boy to be beautiful, but this boy is so beautiful. It makes her heart ache.

Stiles shakes his head. “I’m saying a little bit of time. We need that. We need to, you know, mourn, and tie up loose ends, and be in a place where we can start something like this. I’m not saying no. You know I’d never say no to you.”

She feels light, like she’s floating, and being tethered to Stiles keeps her from floating away too far. He’s got her. She’s got him. It’s a delightful concept to think about.

 ”You tell me when, and I’m all yours.”

He’s grinning and it’s the first time he’s smiled like that in a long time. She’d never realized she missed him this way, Stiles completely and unadulterated-ly himself.

"Goddamn, I’ve been waiting many, many years to hear you say that."

There’s a blush that floods her entire body, and it deepens its heat when Stiles leans forward to catch her lips again. Because he can. And it’s exhilarating.

"Sleep?" she asks, pulling back, reaching her hands on his face.

The whirlwind of emotions she’s been feeling all night has drained her completely. He nods and she feels her body relax; Stiles moves to turn the lights of his bedroom now, and returns to her. 

In another life, with another person, she would have pushe’d for more. But he doesn’t want it, and for the first time in while, she wants to make someone else happy. It’s a good feeling, and what has her feeling even better is the way he wraps his arms around her, pulls her very, very close, so his breath tickles her neck. She adjusts the blankets over them, and she’s been so used to sleeping alone her body doesn’t know what to do, only seems to inch as close as she can so their pressed together, front to back. She doesn’t mind the way Stiles can’t seem to stop pressing kisses over where her pulse pounds, underneath the hollow of her ear. She adores it, and him, and when she drifts off to sleep, it’s sound and serene, and she’ll be convinced she dreamt the sound of Stiles voice as he told her he loved her.

 

* * *

 

It’s blazing in the morning, heat all around her body. Her front is pressed against solid flesh, and she hears gentle snores through the bleariness of just waking up. It’s Saturday; that comes to her fast enough. She’d been so distraught the night before that it took her a moment to realize just where she was. Leaning up on her elbow, she combs her fingers through the knots of her hair, pushing the locks over her shoulder. She’s looking down at Stiles, watching him sleep. Observing, she wonders what he’s dreaming. His face is childlike, peaceful, and his body is long against her side. They must have shifted in the night because he’s lying on his back, and her thigh is hitched up over his hips, covering what she’s able to tell is a morning situation. She won’t lie and say it doesn’t make her curious, but sleep sex was never her thing, and she can still hear the echo of his voice, asking for time. She’s used to dealing with things with her body, her sexual allure. It’s different, almost wrong that she doesn’t have to with Stiles. He’s not after her because of sex, but because he actually likes the person she is. She cracks a small laugh before leaving the bed, keeping Stiles asleep. He turns onto his stomach, and she watches as he reaches for something, falling still with his arm stretches out to where she’d been laying seconds ago.

She packs up her things. It’s early enough that she can avoid the Sheriff, remembering Stiles’ lie the night before. She finds herself smiles stupidly. This boy is going to kill her.

She forgoes the heels, shell drive barefoot, but she strips from Stiles shirt and back into her dress. She doesn’t have a toothbrush, honestly she came ill prepared, but she shoves everything into her bag, keeping as quiet as she can.

She manages to pad down the stairs, clutching her keys in hand.

"Lydia?"

There’s a feeling like she’s in the middle of those kinds of movies she’s obsessed with watching. The Sheriff is standing behind her, pajamas still on, coffee in one hand and the paper in the other. She gives him a sheepish smile when she turns to face him.

"Good morning, Sheriff?" she says, more in the tone of a question more than a simple statement.

"Morning. Thought you left last night?"

Lydia shares a shy smile. “Could you cut us a little slack? Just a little, considering the events that have occurred.”

The sheriff knows, Lydia is certain, that grieving alone isn’t the same when there’s someone to hold you. He gives her a simple nod, complying. “Look, kid. I know—it’s hard for you guys. I do. Believe me. You’re not in trouble or anything. I’m gonna continue to be completely oblivious to you sneaking out of my son’s room. I won’t even mention that I saw you. But I know who you are, and I know what you mean to Stiles. So just be careful.” There’s the implication that she’s around to break his heart. In another life, another person and she would have been. But this is Stiles, the boy who held her all night, kept her tucked into his side and kissed her. This was the boy she was now willing to wait for. It was like the tables have turned. The Sheriff doesn’t know she’s waiting for Stiles this time, but shell leave that bit for Stiles to share, should he choose to.

"Cross my heart. He’s a good guy. You did a good job with that one."

She leaves it there, doesn’t allow him to say much else. Barefoot, she leaves the Stilinski home and it’s almost frightening how twenty four hours ago, she felt like a different person.

 

* * *

 

Lydia does, in fact, sleep for two days. She’s on leave from classes because most of them were shared with her dead best friend. She mopes and cries and stares at photographs while running her fingers over Allison’s face. She thinks about Allison, how weak she is knowing that Scott and Stiles are in school, walking around and being strong. She feels pathetic in her mourning, but she allows herself some peace, keeping herself locked in her bedroom for the weekend, most of Monday and Tuesday as well.

There are moments when she thinks about Stiles. Happier thoughts infiltrate her. There isn’t a choice, Stiles just enters into her mind and she dwells on it, even finds her lips twitching into a smile. He’s in her head while she watches television, reads her mother’s old Greek textbooks, while she showers. He’s sent her close to a million text messages, most of them asking if she’s okay. Some she answers, some she stares at until her vision blurs. None of them mention the way he kissed her, if he’s thinking about the way her body fit under his own. None of his messages confirm what happened that night, and if she was being honest, chalking it up to a dream would have hurt a lot less that waiting did. 

The entire situation is comical; did Stiles ever feel like going out of his mind while he waited for Lydia? She admired his dedication. She didn’t think anyone (there goes another fleeting thought about Allison) knew her as well as Stiles seemed to. He was smart to give them time; patience, however, was never one of Lydia’s virtues.

She sits at her vanity, ritualistically transforming her face with make up. She wasn’t going anywhere, though it was three o’clock on a Tuesday and she’s been signed out of class. But she couldn’t handle looking at herself in the mirror and see the bags under her eyes, or how translucent her skin appeared. Brushing her hair, she lets it fall in gentle tendrils, placed a ribbon in her hair. Turning to her bed, she picked up her previously abandoned phone and checked her notifications. There were six; two texts from Scott in between messages from Stiles. Lydia carefully constructed her answers to Scott;  _I’m fine, just had something and I’m going for a nap. Thanks._  It was easy, a white lie as she read Stiles messages, four of them expelling worry. Before she could answer, the door bell jingled. She couldn’t hear the visitor up in her bedroom, so she sent messages to Stiles, telling him she was fine, didn’t need to waste his time coming to check on her. She receives a message that makes her heart jump in her chest. 

_Too late._

There’s a knock at her door, and tumbles out of bed and answers it.

Stiles is still wearing his backpack, his usual flannel, a nervous expression that could rival her own. She lets him in without much thought and takes care to close the door behind them. When she turns back to him, she wrings her fingers.

She sighs, pressing her lips together. “Not that I don’t mind you being here—”

"Stop, Lydia." He says it gently and with such fondness she doesn’t have time react when she’s being pressed against him with his mouth on hers. She emits a small gasp before curling her arms around his neck, bringing him down into her. She doesn’t feel like she’s being stretched so thin anymore, like she’s connected to something resilient. She ignores the tugging she feels in her stomach. Stiles kisses her like he missed her, hold her like she’s leaving, and says her name like he’s surprised. And she drinks it all in like she’s thirsty, like she can’t live without it. It’s intense, unlike any of the kisses she’s had before. He slows them down, cools her off, but his hold doesn’t loosen and she’s grateful.

His face is flushe’d and his eyes are closed, but she watches him; he looks heart broken. “I told myself I could wait until tomorrow, I told myself I’d just wait by your locker so I could see you before class. Because I know you didn’t go to school so you could have time alone, but I needed to see you now.”

"I wouldn’t have said no to seeing you, Stiles," she says seriously, and when his eyes find hers, she’s smiling gently, triggering a bright smile of his own.

"Really?"

She shrugs, as though it isn’t a big deal, but it is. She keeps her smile in place.

He sighs, relieved, in the way only Stiles could, with his whole body. He withdraws from her, and there’s the odd feeling of being cold, stretched. It’s uncomfortable.

"Did something happen?" Lydia asks, watching Stiles pace in front of her.

He shakes his head, but his words say otherwise. “They have one of those memorials on her locker, with pictures of her. Of us. Of us with her. There are a million candles and teddy bears and I-wish-I-knew-you-better notes, and it’s all such fucking bullshit because they’ll take it down and everyone will forget about her and that’s not fair. Not to Allison. I walked past it so many times … I feel like an asshole for wanting to take it down. Wanting to pretend that she’s not dead.”

She stares at Stiles, reaching to him to stop him from moving. “You know that’s not important, Stiles,” she says, voice hardened. “We remember her. The people she called family. It’s alright to miss her, Stiles. It’s okay.”

His eyes are cold when he looks at her; she doesn’t recoil. She can’t, not while it’s so obvious he’s taking this very, very hard. “Yeah? It  _never_  gets easier, Lydia. It’s  _not_ okay. We just get used to what it feels like when someone we love dies. Used to them not being there. My mom. Heather, Tara,  _Allison_. I keep having these nightmares, you know? Where it happens over and over again, and I’m there, watching them die. I can barely sleep and I couldn’t see you, and I keep thinking about losing my dad, or Scott, or—you.” he doesn’t continue and she realizes he’s doing what she’d done to him the night she slept in his bed. He’s unloading onto her and she accepts it, his vulnerability, and feels her protective instinct surge inside of her.

"Hey, we’re okay. I’m okay," she says. Because she can’t promise he won’t lose them, like he can’t promise she won’t lose her mother, her father. 

She drags him to sit on the edge of her bed, calm him down before it escalates into something worse. Side by side, she takes his hand and holds it in her own, resting on her lap. Looking up at him, he looks straight back at her, gentleness in his eyes. But there’s also a lot of sadness and she can’t help but feel empathetic towards it.

"When we did that whole die-for-our parents thing, Deaton said wed have this darkness inside of us. Forever. Like a tattoo, Scott said. I think it makes a lot of things harder to deal with. But that—the whole thing always brings me back to you. Makes me wanna fight for you and keep you safe, and just be around you. I can’t lose you. I—"

The raw emotion she witnesses makes her skin crawl, but it also gives her a sense of peace. She’s almost baffled by the way Stiles trusts her with all of these thoughts and emotions. He trusts her with himself and the thought is intimidating.

She puts her hand on his face, willing him to look at her. She shakes her head. “You’re not going to lose me, Stiles. You’re strong, okay? You can get through this.” She swipes her thumb over Stiles cheek, pouring affection for the boy. She wants to hold him until he’s alright.

He doesn’t say anything in return. She isn’t certain if he believes her, but she wishes he does. That he will. That she’s right and everything will be okay. She has a hard time believing that herself most days.

She takes the initiative to make herself comfortable, lies back on her bed and shifts underneath the blankets. Stiles lets his backpack fall to the ground and he’s lying next to her, arms around her so tight. The tugging in her stomach subsides, always does when he’s this close. And while the ghost of his arms has long since gone, she knows the feeling will be replaced when she wakes up and he isn’t next to her.

 

* * *

 

She finds a note on the pillow next to her, “had to get home, call me when you’re awake.” Though the hollow feeling is prominent, she does as the note requests.

She checks the time first; it’s too late for her to be calling anyone, but she’s knows Stiles wouldn’t mind. He’d probably be up anyway.

It takes six rings before she hears his voice say her name by way of greeting, drenched with sleepiness. She relaxes back into her bed, the tugging strong, insistent.

"Lydia?" he murmurs again, but he sounds more alert, like he’s worried.

"I’m here, I’m here," she replies, closing her eyes when she listens to him breathe.

"Sleep okay?" he asks, and Lydia has to think about it before she answers, because yes she did. It was waking up alone that had catapulted her back into feeling a little off kilter.

"Yeah. I expected you to be here when I woke." She doesn’t mean to say it, but it’s pulled out of her. "Just surprised."

She can hear shifting, sighing, and then Stiles’ voice is clearer through the earpiece of her phone. “Sorry. I would have stayed if my dad—I don’t think he wants me anywhere that isn’t home, right now. I don’t really blame him.”

Lydia can’t either; the Sheriff has the ability to keep Stiles a lot safer than she can in their home, the place where Stiles belongs. An inkling of jealousy crawls up her back, chills her spine.

"It’s fine." She ponders for a while, and Stiles breathing on the other side of the line makes her feel warm. She should hang up, let him sleep. She’d see him in the morning, she knows, there’s no sense in being desperate for his company. "I should let you sleep."

There’s a huff and a chuckle and Lydia smiles. “Because I’ve never pulled an all nighter before and I have no idea what coffee is.”

She laughs in abundance; Stiles always looks like he’s been awake for too many hours without enough coffee. These days the look is a lot more permanent.

"Alright, alright. I have very little patience, Stilinski. Hearing you complain about lack of sleep because you didn’t want to hang up isn’t on my to-do list."

Stiles laughs again, and it warms her up. She throws off the blanket. Its one in the morning and she’s talking to a boy that makes her smile, the boy that has the potential to be a very big part of her life.

"I wish you were here." Stiles voice is thick, makes her insides liquefy and burn her skin. The tugging in her stomach almost pains her.

"If you ask nicely enough, I could be." she whispers, her throat raw and wrecked. She waits forever for his response, waiting for him to answer the question she’s been dying to ask.

It takes a moment. Stiles has to be thinking about it, mulling over the idea of sharing a bed with her again, of tucking her body into the side of his own. It’s all she can think about.

"Its late … You shouldn’t be out just because I’m—"

"Stiles, its yes or no."

"Yes." There isn’t any hesitation with him.

"Twenty minutes." She hangs up without another word.

She takes care to pack clothes for the next day, as well as appropriate sleepwear so she doesn’t have to sleep in his shirt again. He didn’t seem to mind, but the cute garments in her closet would never forgive her. She’s completely prepared for an impromptu sleepover and she doesn’t know what she’s doing or why she’s even acting like this, but the tugging in her stomach won’t let her sleep if he isn’t there. It sounds so stupid in her head, she’d be so mortified if she said any of it out loud.

She listenes to music during her drive, soft thrumming guitars and a female voice cooing about love. Lydia sang along, under her breath.

In front of Stiles house, she parked and texted him that she was outside. Looking up, she could see the light to his bedroom was on, but there wasn’t any movement. She saw the door open after some seconds, and she walked up to him, bag in hand.

In the dark, he led her to his room. Sheriff wasn’t around, and she noticed his car was missing from the driveway. Stiles had been alone.

His room is messier than the last time she’d been over. There were stacks and messes of paper, but the walls had been cleared. His bed was unmade and rumpled and she noticed the prescription bottle on his nightstand, uncapped and half emptied. He’d probably taken more Adderall than he needed to.

She sets down her bag on his desk chair, and her keys atop his desk. He’s busy shuffling things together, moving things out of the way. She thinks it’s cute the way he’s making space for her. She toes off her flats, the carpet a gentle brush underneath her feet. She interrupts him, drags his attention away so he’s focuses on her. He’s so tall; his arms engulf her body, pulling her into him, until all her weight is focused on the balls of her feet.

"I’m kinda surprised you came. Slumber parties featuring Lydia Martin aren’t really the norm." Stiles pulls back, so he’s looking down at her, smile on his face. He looks genuinely pleased by her presence.

"Oh, shut up," she quips in return, but she’s aware of the change in their dynamic. How close they’ve gotten. She’s greedy enough to want more of it. "You mind if I shower?" she asks hesitantly. "Get ready for bed and all that."

He shakes his head. “Be my guest. There’s towels under the sink.”

Nodding, she pulls away from him and picks up her bag, walking into the hall.

She loves the Stilinski house because it’s unbelievably masculine. Wood and dark colors, occasional femininity left by Mrs. Stilinski or even Mrs. McCall.  She’s quick in the shower, washing her hair, her face, her body, before finishing and brushing her teeth. She dresses in a t-shirt and cotton shorts, felling comfortable knowing that she’s become so casual with someone, that she doesn’t mind being so naked.

She leaves the rest of her items in the bathroom for the morning.

Stiles has sufficiently made his bedroom neater. He’s sitting on his bed, looking through a thick, leather bound book, head snapping up when she walks in.

His eyes are on her for longer than she’s ever noticed. His gaze makes her hungry. Time, she reminds herself, or has that concept been thrown out of the window since he came over earlier and kissed her?

Her legs take her to his bed, and he tugs on her arm to get her sit beside him. She opts for his lap, pushing the book away, before kissing him.

It’s the first she’s initiated, at least the first where there isn’t a panic attack involved. She takes her time, gets to know him this way, enjoy how his hands fall to her waist and stay, but pull her close at the same moment. His lips are warm and his tongue is searching and there’s heat that surges through her, like the tugging in her stomach, but hotter, lower, and a lot more desperate. 

Time, she reminds herself, but it doesn’t seem to matter in the way Stiles breaks them apart to mouth at her neck. His fingers tangle in her wet hair, and she sighs into the room otherwise filled with their labored breathing.  Experimentally, she pushes her hips down into him, listening to the strangled groan he emits. His hands move up her back, reaching underneath the cotton of her tee to settle against her skin. His fingertips press into her spine, keeping her close.

Lydia pushes her hips down again. Stiles is breathing into her throat, and she builds up a rhythm; he matches her, sloppy, a little untamed, his hips moving up into hers. She gasps, her fingers carding through his hair. She needs this, wishes she didn’t, but the physical representation of what he feels for her is phenomenal; how could she go any longer without it? Her body is ablaze, her pulse thundering in her ears, legs shaking as she rubs herself against where Stiles in hard underneath his pajama bottoms.

She wants more of him, for the simple barriers of their clothes to be gone, for it to just be him and her, flesh against flesh.

His hands make her forget what she’s desperate for, the way they slide down her back, dropping from underneath her shirt to the curve of her waist and the flare of her hips. They sit on her ass, guiding her rhythm. Slower, yes, she notices, but harder pressed, precise, deliberate motions. Stiles has stopped kissing her and when she looks down at him, his eyes are gleaming full of love and wonder and pure awestruck. Her knees at to hurt with way the rub into Stiles bed sheets.

She kisses him full on the mouth, intense, keeping the same rhythm their hips do. He’s amazing; too much lost time, she thinks, too much time without him, without this.

She warns him, chokes out in between their kisses that she’s going to come, and he swears. He picks her body up, lays her against his mattress and fucks her until she does come, lungs desperate for air as she chants his name. She doesn’t miss when he comes, burying his face in her neck, breath hot and moist as he sucks on her throat.

She hadn’t meant for it to happen. She didn’t come for sex. But it has her wondering how sex with a seventeen year old used-to-be-virgin with their clothes on knocks out any encounters she’s had thus far. She inhales oxygen like she’s been suffocating.

Stiles doesn’t say anything, leaves the room without as much as a glance towards her. She gives him the time he needs.

The sheets smell like them. Like her and him and them together. She doesn’t change her clothes, doesn’t want to change anything. She wants him to come back, to hold her like he did the afternoon before, and to make her feel loved. She needs him to come back.

She’s almost asleep when he does return. She’s tucked into the corner, wrapped in his blanket and sleeping on his pillow. The light is shut off and Stiles still doesn’t make a sound when he pulls back the blanket and fuses himself to her. His arms around her waist and his chest to her back; Lydia twines their fingers like vines.

"You’re mad at me." Lydia whispers. She hears Stiles chuckle.

"You’re kidding right?" he responds; Lydia’s stomach twists with content. "Just surprised. My life is becoming a series of events I never expected to happen."

Lydia smiles, rests comfortably underneath Stiles wandering lips. He murmurs things, sweet words, romantic little phrases that shake her heart into overdrive. She could have called Allison screaming at the top of her lungs about the way this boy makes her feel.

"Yeah, well, color me surprised, as well," she mutters, "but it’s not bad."

"No, not bad. Very good, actually, since you know. Everything. I need good. I need you and this," he pauses, clutching her hand. "Thought I needed time, but every second I’m not with you, I’m probably thinking about you or worried and—it doesn’t make sense to wait. If you’re here …"

Lydia turns in his hold, facing his body. She finds he’s shirtless, only fresh pajama bottoms. It distracts her for a moment; the sudden exhilarating desire to run her fingers over flesh is suppressed. “Not if. There aren’t any more ifs. I think there’s a lot more behind that tethering business Dr. Deaton was going on about, but I think it has a lot to do with you and me, and the way we are. I’m not sure what it is, but I’m grateful for it. It scares me, though.”

She can’t make out Stiles’ face, but his silence leads her to believe he’s wearing one of his annoying interrogatory facial expressions.

"That I feel so much for you," she admits, eventually. She hates talking about this, because if makes her feel stupid and weak. "If I’m going to love you, I want to love you right."

"Shit."

Embarrassed, she snaps at him. “ _What_?”

He’s laughing. “Lydia martin wants to love me. Not only does she want to love me, she wants to love me  _right_.” The pride in his voice strings around her heart and squeezes.

"Goddamn it, Stilinski," she says but she’s smiling and laughing and Stiles is kissing her. And she feels good and whole and strong, fearless.

They fall asleep without missing a beat.

 

* * *

 

 

Lydia wakes up comfortably the next morning. She’s lying on her stomach, face buried in pillows that smell like a certain boy she’s come to be so infatuated with. The sun streams through the windows, shining over Stiles’ bed; it warms her. The space next to her is empty, which raises questions considering she’s in Stiles’ bedroom, but when she sits, she can hear talking coming from the other side of the door (left cracked open, but she’s sure it isn’t so she can eavesdrop).

“…  _Spent the night? What do you mean?_ ”

Scott’s voice is recognizable, if only for the surprise and confusion that color his words. She listens much more carefully for what should be Stiles’ response.

“ _It just happened. Don’t make a big deal out of it, Scott.”_

“ _It’s a big deal though. Ten-year plan came a little early.”_

_“Damn it, don’t even start with the coming jokes, dude.”_

Scott’s laugh rings, a little louder than it should, so she lays back down, pretends she wasn’t listening in. She’s not completely sure what was going on between the two boys, but she can’t blame Stiles for telling Scott. She would have called Allison the second she could. She wishes she could. She doesn’t have many girls within her reach, and she hasn’t warmed up to Kira or Malia and doesn’t intend to. She could say that she was jealous of Stiles, and his everlasting relationship with Scott. She won’t, though.

After a moment, she hears the stairs creak; it’s Wednesday, shouldn’t they be at school? The clock on Stiles’ bedside table reads that it’s near eleven. Day wasted, but she’s assuming that their parents aren’t finding fault within them. Class is so trivial when someone dies. Everything seems so small when there’s a gaping hole in her chest, and her heart is missing someone.

She takes a moment to brush her teeth and tie a knot in her hair at the top of her head. Being this way with Stiles was easy, she knew he would never judge her out of the sheer, unparalleled love he held for her. Scott was too nice to comment something bad, but she did want to at least look presentable. There’s a hoodie hanging from the desk chair. She’s seen it before, can’t place the faded grayish-blue color, but it looks warm and comforting, and she doesn’t hesitate to pull it on. It was either that or a bra and Lydia wasn’t about that yet.

 _Perfect combination,_  she remembers. Ice skating; he watched her cut the ice with her delicate, fierce moves. She watched him admire her.

The stairs drop her into the living room, but she can hear Scott and Stiles in the kitchen. She’s taken so much upon herself these days that she feels like she’s intruding. The tugging in her stomach is back, and she doesn’t know why; Stiles is ten feet away from her.

Stiles is on the countertop, a bowl in his hand, and Scott looks like he’s been to school and back. They both look at her, and she gives them a morning smile. Stiles doesn’t move, just beams at her.

“That mine?” He points to her with his freehand.

“Me? Of course I am,” she says without a second thought, and with one glance, she sees the way Stiles flushes with color; it’s not a blush, but heat that she can physically see. The tugging is stronger. Scott on the other hand, is laughing, his face conveying a sweet kind of surprise. Almost giving her a look of  _finally_.

She feels good in the middle of the two boys, in between laughter. She ignores the way Scott’s eyes are darkened, the way his tanned skin has lost the golden shimmer it seemed to have. He doesn’t look quite like Scott, but she knows he’s in there, underneath piles of grief and sadness. Kira may have been holding his hand, but Allison had stolen his heart and had never given it back. She wonders if he feels like she does, hollow inside.

“I meant the jacket,” Stiles corrects, but there’s a gleam in his eyes she’d take advantage of if it wasn’t for his best friend standing in the same room. Scott’s still smiling and things feel normal.

“ _Oh_ ,” she feigns oblivion, waving her hand. “Found it upstairs, in  _your room_ so I’m going to conclude that, yes, Stiles, yes it is.”

She digs in the fridge and pours herself a glass of orange juice. She pulls a glass out and does the same for Scott.

“Wow,” he mutters, and Lydia gives him a look.

“What?”

Scott shrugs. “Give me a second to adjust, you know? Like a week ago, you guys weren’t this close. If I didn’t know any better I’d say I was in an alternate universe where Stiles  _actually_  gets the girl.”

Stiles sounds shocked when he says, “Cold, dude. Cold.” Lydia is laughing, and she laughs for a good while, feels her seams mending. She remembered the first day of the new school year, just a year before, walking past Stiles and Scott offhandedly hearing him say she was going to ignore her. She did. She didn’t regret it, now. Everything that had happened before had led them here. She could do without a few deaths, so could the rest of her friends, but such was life and she couldn’t take any of it back.

It was almost surreal to be standing in Stiles’ kitchen, drinking orange with him and his best friend. Never had she thought that these two would become two of the most important people in her life. Granted, she didn’t have the kind of pull she did with Scott that she did with Stiles, but she cared about him just as much. Couldn’t lose him like she lost Allison. She couldn’t even think about losing Stiles. For a moment, she didn’t want to be sober and stoic. She wanted to laugh, just the way Stiles and Scott made her.

Stiles finished with his food and dropped the bowl into the sink. He didn’t hesitate to walk over to her, plant a kiss on her hair. She warms and a small part of her blushes when she finds Scott’s eyes boring into her.

“Where are you going?” She asks, leaning up against the counter.

“Shower.” He leaves it there and when he’s galloping up the stairs, she’s alone with Scott. She wraps Stiles’ sweater tighter around her petite frame. She takes a moment to take Scott’s hand, give him a smile. She hasn’t seen Scott in days. For a moment, she feels lighter, like she can’t feel any pain at all. Scott gives her a warm smile.

“How are you holding up?” he asks. His eyes are warm brown and she feels safe here. It’s so stupid; it took her too long to realize safety is something she finds in people, not places. Allison, Scott, and even gangly, human Stiles, she feels safe in their presence.

“Not too well. To be expected. You?”

Scott sighs. It’s a sigh that expels nights of sleeplessness, nightmares, over-thinking their actions and what they could have done differently. There are hints of self deprecation, anger and sadness. Lydia knows she loves Allison. She was her friend, her platonic soul mate. But Scott? Scott had loved that girl with every fiber of his being. Had never treated her like anything less than the princess she was. Did right by her. And he was repaid by having the world rip her from his side, from his life, and he’ll never get her back. In what world was that okay?

Despite everything, Scott smiles at her. “I’m alright.” He’s a liar and she knows it because she’s been having the hardest time of her life.

“You’re unbelievable,” Lydia gasps, and she doesn’t want to cry, but there’s fire in her throat, pain in her head, and her limbs are shaking. When Scott wraps his arms around her, it happens again, the release of endorphins that floor her body and allow her to choke back the tears she’s always fighting.

He doesn’t say anything. She likes Scott, as a person, as a friend, as a used-to-be-mythical creature. If there’s one encounter she’s never wanted to have, it’s this one.

“I’m okay. It’s going to be okay.” Scott’s voice wavers, but stays strong. She doesn’t know if he’s trying to convince her or himself.

Stiles wanders back down eventually and Lydia is making lunch for the three of them (Stiles may have had something not moments ago, but she’s seen him eat. As skinny as he is, she doesn’t know how he does it. Damn those boys and their fast metabolisms).

She makes them sandwiches, thick with meat and vegetables, potato wedges on the side, and more glasses brimming with orange juice. The Sheriff walks in, and judging by the look on his face, he ignores the fact that it’s noon on a Wednesday and they’re supposed to be in school. Each of them can pull out an excuse they’re sure he doesn’t want to hear. His eyes linger on her, because he knows who she is, what she means to his son, and she’s still holding her promise that she’s not around to break his heart.

If anything, she’s frightened that he has all the power to break hers.

“Would you like some, Sheriff?” Lydia asks, standing by the counter. When she looks back, she sees the three of them staring back at her in wonder. She doesn’t know what she did to warrant the attention, but it’s a nice feeling.

“Sure,” he replies. She gives him the plate that had originally been for her, and whips up another sandwich for herself. At the table, she takes the seat next to Stiles. Sheriff at the head, Stiles on his right, and Scott on his left, she thinks this must happen a lot.

There’s light chatter, more laughing, and the Sheriff warns them that they better get to school the next day. There’s a moment where he pulls Stiles aside, somewhere where she can’t listen in. Scott’s laser-pointed focus makes her think he’s got the ability to listen.

He doesn’t tell her what they say, and she doesn’t ask.

Eventually, the Sheriff is going back to work, and three of them lounge on the couch for a movie, before Scott goes to meet up with Derek and Isaac. Stiles stays behind and Lydia’s grateful; she’s not ready to be stretched thin yet. Sometimes, she feels like she can reach between their bodies ad pluck the thin strand that keeps them tethered.

With the house emptied, they retreat back to Stiles’ bedroom. Lydia takes a moment to shower and dress, a simple dress, wet hair and a decision to keep Stiles’ hoodie wrapped around her. He doesn’t ask for it back, and she isn’t going to offer it.

“Should we talk?” he asks, sitting atop his bed, books surrounding him. She takes a moment to admire; Stiles is the only person who could rival her intellectually. If he would actually take advantage of his learning abilities, he could be just as great as she is. He’s full of potential, and it makes her smile, because all of that potential—she wants to tap into it, help him become a better person, not that he isn’t great already. She just knows he’s tapped into her, and made her a person completely different person. She can’t even recognize herself sometimes.

She nods in response to his question. She sits near him, crossing her legs and dipping the skirt of her dress so she isn’t being improper.

Stiles sighs, closes the book he was reading, and looks at her intently. “I know I asked for time, and it’s stupid. I said it before, but I thought I needed time to get over Allison, and I am.  I just know I don’t need time away from you. And I have to say that now, because—“

Lydia shakes her head. “Don’t explain. I  _know_. This is going to sound weird, but I just—I always feel like I’m being pulled on when you’re not around. And I know that has to do with the whole tether thing, bringing you back from dying—I don’t like the feeling. It’s exhausting.”

“So …”

“So.” She echoes, looking anywhere but him. Because last night is still heavy on her mind, and she doesn’t want to forget it. She wants, in fact, more of it, more of him. And it’s going too fast, they’re falling into this too fast and Lydia should stop it, but she doesn’t know how, and she doesn’t care because she doesn’t  _want to_. “So it’s me and you.”

Stiles grins and it reaches his eyes, setting the brown of his irises and the black of his pupils alight with something akin to a wildfire. “Me and you.”

She nods.  _Me and you_  has a wonderful ring to it, and just admitting it lightens the pressure of the pull in her stomach. She’s connected to him and it’s exhilarating and scary, but it doesn’t feel wrong. Not the way she’s used to.

“And last night—“

“Will happen again. Often, if I have anything to say about it,” she interrupts and Stiles’ face is colored with surprise. He has a feeling he isn’t going to decline that offer.

“Yeah?” He’s tugging on her arms and lying back against the bed and Lydia is tumbling onto him. “How often?”

She flashes him a sultry look, fluttering her eyes. “As often as you can get it up, if we’re being completely honest.” He groans and she laughs, and it feels good. Relationships always made her feel like she was apart of something special, but its Stiles, she knows, and how he feels for her that makes her feel good.

“You’re going to kill me. I’m going to die,” he mutters, and she laughs again, rolling her eyes.

Scoffing, she rolls her eyes. “I’m counting on you to keep up, Stilinski. I’ve got needs that need to be met.”

The heat in his eyes makes fire pool between her legs. “Challenge accepted.”

There’s a lot to learn, a lot to teach, but the way Stiles kisses her makes her think it’s going to be a piece of cake.

 

* * *

 

Lydia has dinner with her mother that night. Chinese take-out; they watch Chicago Fire before Lydia retreats to her bedroom. She kisses and hugs her mother; because it’s long overdue that they show the strongest kind of affection towards one another. She makes a mental note to call her father tomorrow.

In her bedroom, she switches on the stereo to some pop fluff that’s stuck in the CD drawer. She dances along, singing to the little snippets she knows. Allison would have wanted her to celebrate life instead of mourning her death. Even though she succumbs to the tears, she sings along to more music, moves around her room, dancing the way people do when no one is watching.

She falls asleep, the pressure in her stomach strong, but not uncomfortable. The glow of her phone’s screen in the dark shows her a message from Stiles, a simple goodnight with a smiley face tacked onto the end. She texts back the same, because she’s not going to show up at his house and he isn’t going to come here, and it’s okay. She’s never been dependent on other people. She does crave the kind of warmth her blankets don’t offer, but the tug inside of her reminds her that she’s got someone.

 

* * *

 

Classes continue on without a hitch. She wasn’t missed, and making up the lost time in her schedule won’t be too hard. She’s gifted with a free period and extended lunches and plenty of time after school to study. She’ll be back in first place in no time. She still has her eyes on that valedictorian sash, of course.

Tardiness that morning keeps her from meeting with any of her friends, unfortunately. They’ll understand, she hopes.

She should have known, however, that it wouldn’t stop Stiles.

He’s there after her first period, leaning against the wall engaged in his phone. Her heart skips several beats; he’s  _waiting_  for her. Vaguely, she remembers a conversation between her and Allison, about boyfriends, about the surge of emotions that come with being in a good relationship. She’d admitted that she’d never felt it before. Right now, she understands. God, she _understands,_  and it scares her.

Her feet push her towards him, dressed in too-high heels and a fluttery skirt. Stiles looks at her, smiles so brightly she’s sure he can illuminate the whole city with that smile alone. She knows he could.

“Hey,” he says. He doesn’t take her hand or offer to carry her bag or collection of books, or anything of the like. He’s normal, and she’s normal, but they stand a lot closer than usual. Scott catches up eventually, wraps his arm around Lydia’s shoulders and sandwiched between an ADHD ridden kid and a teenaged werewolf, she doesn’t think about the tinkling laughter that’s missing. She feels good, whole, like continuing on won’t be so hard. She feels like living without Allison isn’t impossible.

The boys walk her to her next class, and every class after that. Scott, sometimes, is with Kira, but they seemed to have regressed so many steps with Allison looming between them. When she sees them hold hands, it warms her.

“See you after?” Stiles asks, and it’s a question that’s asked more than Lydia likes, because it’s like he’s second guessing her presence.

So she nods, vanquishes his questions with a smile. She leaves him to walk into class and sit in her assigned seat.

She didn’t expect it to happen. It’s been so long since she has. It’s sudden and terrifying, but before she knows it, she’s standing in front of Allison’s locker. It’s decorated beautifully, colorfully,  _brilliantly_ , a reminiscence of the girl it honors. The flowers left days ago have wilted, but the notes and photographs are vibrant as ever. They don’t do Allison justice, but she admires them, wipes the tears from her face when she feels them fall.

Part of her wants to tear it all down. But this is for Allison. This is for her memory. For the person she was to them. It shatters her heart that she doesn’t get to see this girl again. That there aren’t anymore smiles and hugs, no more slumber parties and shopping trips, no more arrow-shooting in the forest, or the way Allison allows Lydia try her own hand at archery. There isn’t anything but remembering the things they’ve done, and hating that they never got more time to spend together.

“You okay?”

She whips around, finds a familiar face. Danny with his sweet eyes, with his gentle smile, and she nods, comfortable around him. “Fine,” she says, though she’s sure it doesn’t convince either of them. He embraces her, and though the tugging inside of her is strong, she feels good with Danny, a person she knows she can confide in.

“You’re a liar, but I get it.” His voice is gentle. It doesn’t accuse, just states the obvious. There’s no pretending with him; she should have remembered that.

He must get it. Jackson was his best friend, and he’s gone too, skipped continents and Danny’s found solace in Ethan since. It’s a change, the way their lives intertwine, but it’s familiar. Danny is familiar. She makes a note to see him more often, after excusing herself to the bathroom. He waves at her, promises to text her later.

Staring in the mirror, she  _knows_  she’s strong enough, but maybe it’s too much. Everywhere she turns Allison’s ghost is there and Lydia has never liked the idea of being haunted.  _Everything_  is Allison and it hurts so badly she has to take a step back, but when she inhales, it comes out in a sob. Her body shakes with nervous tremors, her body traumatized with grief and guilt. She collapses; her knees are week and she can only cover her mouth, trying to swallow the long streams of sobs that are torn from her chest as she sits on the dirty bathroom floor. She’s  _pathetic_. There are millions upon millions of people who have lost parents and sisters and brothers, friends and family. She just never thought she would experience this, that it wouldn’t happen to her. Aiden is gone, too; the boy she used as a distraction was just that, a boy. Young and dead. Are these the lives they lead? Strong and  _powerful_  young lives with ticking clocks counting down seconds to their own locker memorials?

It’s Lydia that marches back outside, and tears Allison’s memorial down, rips it up into shreds of photos and I’ll-be-missing-you notes. They’re scattered throughout the hallway and people step out of the classrooms and stare at her; the gazes of her peers, of her teachers are intense. It takes Stiles, Scott, and Coach Finstock to restrain her.

She can’t help the scream; she tries to hold it back, but it’s loud, piercing, and it takes all of her strength. Any fight she may have had left disperses from her body. She falls, the echo of her name the last thing she hears.

She’s in her bedroom when she wakes up. Her bed sheets are soaked with sweat and she’s alone. The tugging in her stomach is almost unbearable. She  _needs_  him. She needs him to be here with her. She wants to hate herself for the out of character display or unrivaled anger. None of her classmates knew  _anything_. Allison died for  _her_. For them. For Stiles, Scott, Kira, for Isaac, Derek, and Deaton. For Chris and Melissa, for the Sheriff, and for every single godforsaken person in the school and in the town and not one of them knew  _anything_  about Allison Argent. They would not miss her the way Lydia misses her.

She drops a message to the one person she knows will help her put herself back together.

Stiles’ response comes seconds after her own message is sent.  _Twenty minutes._

 

* * *

 

The service is stunning.

Lydia speaks about Allison, all the memories she could conjure, the moments that made her the happiest. She doesn’t cry while she talks. She laughs, makes funny voices, tell every person in the room that they didn’t know Allison the way she did. They’d created their own world, their own language; their friendship was a force to be reckoned with. It’s only at the very end that she has to flick away a tear. She takes a moment to touch the wood of the casket Allison will be buried in. It’s cold to her palm. She hears nothing.

After her, it’s Scott, and his speech is beautiful. His words are poetic, the way he talks about her makes her seem like an angel, a goddess, a godsend. His words pierce through her, makes her cry, but Stiles is there to sooth her, to keep her calm. The invisible string between them is thrumming, and it’s  _beautiful_  the sound she hears, silent to everyone else in the room. 

When Scott finishes, he steps down from the podium, kisses the photo of Allison that stands in front of the casket. She notices the tear tracks on his face before he wipes them away, and she knows Scott feels  _worse_  than she does. Allison was  _her_  best friend. Allison was Scott’s  _first love_.

When she’s lowered into the ground, Lydia walks away, choking on her sobs, trying to find air to inhale. She collapses on the ground, marks up her thigh-high stockings with grass stains. It’s too  _much_. The finality of it instills her body with a snowy chill. It’s too hard to deal with, but she’s glad she came, that all of these people came to say goodbye. Allison deserved that much.

There’s a get-together at Chris’ apartment. Everyone mulls about. Lydia witnesses her mother and Chris huddled in the kitchen at one point. She smiles; if it’s in the books, it could work.

When it winds down, exhaustion pulls at her limbs and she asks Stiles’ to take her home.

He’s a gentleman, holds her when they walk to the Jeep, drives them carefully after they say goodbye to their friends. Stiles briefed his father on his whereabouts and Lydia told her mother she wasn’t feeling well. In the car, the air snaps and crackles like wildfire. Stiles’ grip on her hand could be painful. If she could feel anything.

He helps her out when they arrive to her house, even carries her high heels when she left them behind in the Jeep. He’s next to her the whole time; she couldn’t fall if she tried.  When she drags him up to her bedroom, she closes the door behind her, setting the lock.

He’s standing in the middle of her bedroom, at the foot of her bed, waiting for her. She steps carefully, looking up at him. She finds his eyes are colored with sadness, fierce determination right behind it. “Stiles look at me,” she pleads, and he does, with big, wide eyes and his mouth slightly parted. He’s still dressed in his blazer and button up, and she’s still in the fitted black dress she’d bought especially for the occasion so she wouldn’t have to wear anything that could trigger a memory, so she could take this dress down to the fireplace and burn it.

Reaching out her arms, he fills them, holds her so tight she can barely breathe. Nothing matters; she just wants to stop crying, wants to stop hurting so badly.

“Stiles,” she whispers, and his name tastes differently on her tongue; it’s sweet, prominent, and she says it again, over and over again, and he’s telling her he’s there, and she knows he is, she holds him so tight there’s not a doubt in her mind that he’s there. That much in their lives hasn’t changed at all.

“Stiles I need you to love me,” she murmurs.

“I do love you,” he says, his voice so heartbroken, so sincere. She finds it so innocent of him to think she craves the emotion instead of the touch.

She shakes her head, touches the palms of her hands to his cheeks, pulling him down into her for a searing kiss. It’s unlike anything else, the way he presses into her body, his arms around his waist to hold her up because her knees go weak. “I need you to  _love_  me,” she whispers, hates the way it comes out so shy, so uncertain. His voice rings in her mind,  _you know I’d never say no to you_. She hopes this instance is included.

When he leads her to her bed, he lays her down gently. She doesn’t mention the way she feels his hands shake. He kicks off his shoes and sheds his jacket. The pull in Lydia’s gut is painful, and she pulls him on top of her, kisses away all of her fears and insecurities. She lets this boy love her with his mind, with his words, with the long fingers of his hands.

Nothing is hesitant; the deliberate kisses fuel her need, create a deep pool of heat between her legs.  Her fingers do away with the buttons of his shirt, pushes the garment off his shoulders. He’s hot, burning the palms of her hands with the temperature of his body. He’s solid, a weight on top of her that grounds her, makes her feel like she won’t be going anywhere at all.

She hopes she never leaves him. Even more, she hopes he never leaves her.

He finds the zipper to her dress at her side, pulling it down. He takes so much care to undress her it makes her want to cry. She doesn’t, though, keeps her eyes on Stiles as he drags the garment off of her body, tossing it behind him. She allows him the moment he needs to take her in.

His eyes are all over her body, her barely covered breasts in the bra, the simple black lace of her panties, the thigh high stockings. He doesn’t touch her, not yet, but he sighs, his face conveying the kind of awestruck she’s never seen. She has to remind herself that he sees her the way no one else does. “You’re beautiful,” he tells her. She knows it, when she looks in the mirror, when she’s being fucked by her string of male playthings. But she knows its different with him and the way he looks at her is explanation enough.

He’s careful, like she’s going to break. With anyone else, it would have annoyed her, but this is their first encounter, and she feels like she’s baring everything, not just her skin. Her heart pounds as he begins to kiss her, hot, open-mouthed kisses while he descends over her body. He’s attentive to the swells of her chest, the dips of her ribcage, the gentle slope of her belly, the flare of her hips. He unwraps the rest of her like a Christmas gift, more garments tossed behind him, and she lays back against the pillows, ready to be pieced together by the touch of his hands.

He reaches to unbuckle his belt, push off his slacks. She can hear the jingle of his belt hit the floor. They’re almost matched in nakedness, but she reigns superior. She knows Stiles is nervous, its written on his face, in the tremble of his fingers. When she pulls him up for a kiss, she whispers many times that its okay. After a while, he seems to believe her and the trembling subsides. It’s refreshing.

"I’ve dreamed of you," he murmurs, his breath hot as he kisses her throat, sucking marks into her skin. His voice startles her, but it piques her interest; she wants to hear more, wants to know what the Lydia of his dreams does to him. Does she fuck him, suck him off? Is she a vixen that lets him have his way with her body? "I always hold your hand in my dream. We never kiss, we’re never like this. All I’ve ever wanted was for you to let me hold your hand."

She gasps, surprised at his confession. Stiles, ever the romantic,  _oh so sweet_  has made her certain she loves him just by  _that_. She knows how boys operate, how he could have been telling her these things for the sake of getting her to have sex with him. Stiles has never been about that. Always the gentleman with her, always.

It only takes a second; she feels so much for him all at once, but it’s lodged in her throat. She doesn’t say anything to him, just kisses him with a fierce kind of passion, using her whole body. “Don’t be shy, Stiles,” she whispers. She pulls back to look at his face, watching the way his eyes dart across her face. She takes his hands where they sit so carefully on her waist and places them over the flesh of her breasts, letting him really touch her body. She’s his, doesn’t he know? She’ll guide him the whole way, the whole night, until he’s inside of her.

He touches her everywhere, and it’s absolute bliss. He’s so careful, gentle, but his fingers are firm, hands are certain. He whispers that she’s beautiful over and over again; the sound of his voice melts into the soundtrack of their sighs and gasps for breath, the groans they emit. Its the loveliest song she’s ever heard.

She can feel Stiles hard against her. Her bare skin yearns for him to drape his body over hers. She knows he will, when he familiarizes himself with the curves and edges of her body, when he gains the confidence to touch her where she wants it the most. She drags one of his hands away from her chest, presses it between her legs. She’s wet, she knows, soaking far more than she ever has. He groans again, saying her name into the room, the late afternoon sun giving her bedroom room a mature orange glow. Stiles’ skin looks like gold in the light.

He toys with her, teases her with his fingers, dragging them down and up, never pressing inside of her. She writhes on the mattress, letting he legs fall open, wider, so he would get the hint. She really does need him.

His knuckle brushes against her clit and she keens, hands grasping the flesh of Stiles shoulders, muscles flexing underneath her palms. He doesn’t look at her, not when he’s burying his fingers inside her, torturously moving them as she moans underneath him, her eyes fluttering closed, only to reopen when he lays his palm flat against her abdomen. His eyes are focused and she catches the way he licks at his lips. Another day, she thinks, way in the back of her mind. She’d teach him to do so many things with that mouth.

Right now, she feels so good everything else melts away into nothing, like snow on a sunny day. It does everything she wants it to, quiets so she can focus on Stiles, Stiles and his voice and his hands and his sweet, sweet words. His thumb flicks over her clit, fingers pressing into her slowly and it takes all of her strength to make him stop before she comes. He could always fuck her after, when she’s spent, but she wants it to be good for him, too. It’s his  _first_  time; she doesn’t want to cheapen it by making it about herself. This, the presentation of her sexuality is for  _him_  just as much as it is for her.

She manages to take his hand away, whimpering at the loss of having him inside of her. She turns her attention to the nightstand on the right side of the bed and pulls out a short ribbon of condoms. She rips the first one off, handing it to Stiles. He fumbles, drops it on the bed, and doesn’t look at him when he undresses completely, taking off his boxers. She’s not sure what to expect, but what she sees is pleasant,  _good_ , just enough for her.

She smiles fondly at him and takes the initiative, tears the wrapper open and rolls the latex over and down the hard length of him. She strokes, watches his face as his eyes flutter closed. It serves to do nothing but turn her on even more.

She gets settled underneath the blankets of her neatly made bed. He follows.

Stiles kisses her with a tender demeanor when he settles on top of her, between her thighs. He’s soft, caressing her with gentle strokes of his fingers, hitches one of her legs up to curl around is waist. He only stumbles, falters for barely a second when she reaches between them, takes him into her hand and guides him into her.

There are lifetimes of silence between them; it takes a moment for him to move. Perched on his elbows, he continues to kiss her, watch her face as he moves his hips. Different; there isn’t any lewd thrusting, any dirty talk between them. Stiles tells her he  _loves_  her as he rolls his hips down into her, creating just enough friction to drive her mad. He lowers himself onto her completely, fingers threading through her hair, cradling her head. Her thighs bring him in close, deep inside of her that the pressure in her stomach explodes into an array of emotions. It’s in her throat, what she wants to say, but she can’t, not yet, not with the way he strokes inside of her so good, so right. The tears well up in her eyes and she closes them to let them fall.

"Harder," she whispers to him, and he does, burying himself in her heat, pulling back and then pressing inside of her. She makes small desperate sounds and he’s swearing in her ear, never forgetting to let her know that she’s beautiful to him. She’s sure he’s never going to  _let_  her forget it.

She drags her nails down the length of his back, lifting her hips to meet every gentle thrust he gives her. He marks up her neck, the very top of her chest. He sets fire to her body, drenches her in sweat wherever they touch. When she comes, it wrecks her completely, makes her legs shake, her body arch off the bed and into his chest, makes her wrap her arms around him and never let him go. She’s glistening with perspiration and she can’t discern whether its from him or her, but when she looks up, she watches Stiles face, full of undeniable pleasure, and the littlest things don’t matter anymore. She tightens around him, makes him come when she gasps name, and he’s closing his eyes, burying his face in the slope of her neck, pressing kisses into her sweaty flesh like he’s branding her. 

His hips still, spasm, and he drops on top of her. “Fuck,  _Lydia_.” He kisses her all over, and she realizes she’s crying. She feels stupid for it. But Stiles had made her feel so good, despite the orgasm. He made her  _soul_  feel good.

"Hey, hey, oh my god, don’t cry." Stiles wipes her face and pulls out of her, moving to her side. She moans delicately, taking in a shallow breath. He holds her in his arms and she shakes her head.

"It’s good, I’m okay. I’m okay, Stiles. Cross my heart," she says, kissing him gently. He doesn’t look convinced, and she purses her lips, blinking rapidly. "Stiles, don’t annoy me with your face. I’m fine," she says laughing just a little, raising a single eyebrow. He visibly relaxes.

"Okay, okay, fine. Good. I’m glad you’re okay. Because I’m so,  _so_  okay. And I’m gonna clean up …” he mutters at the end, shuffling out of her bed. She sits up, not bothering to keep modest by covering herself with the blankets. He knew her body, had touched it and pleasured it. Modesty wasn’t in the books for them much.

Standing, she takes his hand and leads him to her bathroom, ignoring the everlasting look of surprise that contorts his face. “I’ll wash your back, if you wash mine,” she says with a cheeky smile. Her legs are so weak she makes it to the bathroom, but just barely.

He ditches the condom while she set the shower and climbs in. There’s not much cleaning in between their heated kisses underneath the spray, but they lather each other up, rinse off, and eventually, when the hot water has long since turned cold, they step out into the warm steam. She wipes the fog of her mirror and stares at her reflection. What she sees is beautiful; her eyes connect with Stiles’ in the mirror, and he comes up behind her, kisses down her neck. She’s going to have to take a pointer or two from Isaac and cover up with the assortment of scarves she has in the back of her closet. She should have known Stiles would have a  _thing_  for her neck. 

He’s wandering around, waist wrapped in a towel while she finds him something to wear. She produces basketball shorts and the t-shirt she’d taken from his house the first night she’d stayed.

"I was wondering where this went. Its my favorite shirt, you know," he says with a fond smile, sitting on the edge of her bed. She wants to hear the story and she knows he’ll give it to her so she stays quiet and lets him continue. "It was my dad’s, from the police academy. And after he and my mom got married, she used to wear it all the time. Like whenever she was in the house, she would wear this shirt, like it was the only piece of clothing she owned. She was always so happy when I saw her wear it, so I was eight and stupid and I thought the shirt was magic, you know? Always,  _always_  made her happy. So when she got sick, I always brought this shirt with me, left it with her so she would get better. One day I made the nurses put it on her, carefully so it wouldn’t mess any of the IVs or the heart monitor. And you know, it  _didn’t_  get any better.

“They gave it back to me when she died. Let me hold on to the last thing I had of her. I kept it, obviously. I wore it everyday until it smelled more like me than it did her. My dad had to take it away from me because I couldn’t wear the same thing to school for two weeks, you know?” he smiles, and his eyes don’t show hollowness. He doesn’t remember her death; he’s got a handful of years where he remembers his mother’s smiles, but Lydia’s heart sinks because she’d intruded on his last memory of her. She crawls up behind him, puts her arms around his shoulders and kisses the shell of his ear. “She would have liked you,” Stiles murmurs, seemingly thoughtless. He moves to get dressed, doesn’t think twice about dropping his towel and pulling on the shorts. Lydia watches with hungry eyes. “I think it looks good on you,” he says.

She beams, though he’s turned away from her and can’t see the way she radiates light as his compliments. She kisses him again, and it takes them a while to leave the comfort of Lydia’s bed, behind a locked door.

It’s early enough that they wander about, watch movies and eat leftovers on the kitchen floor with the fridge open. She’s in the middle of a Taylor swift song, with a boy that looks at her like she’s god’s gift to humanity. Loving Stiles is new, brilliant, but it frightens her into saying nothing about the deep, passionate feelings she harbors for him. She doesn’t want to ruin it with her silly, indecisive emotions.

She feels good, and the pressure of the tugging in her stomach has subsided completely. Stiles lies to his dad and says he’s spending the night with Scott. Lydia’s mother says she’s going to stay with Chris for a while and help clean up. Lydia doesn’t expect her home at all, that night.

With the house to themselves, their bodies acquaint themselves very well with each other, until they fall into a gentle rhythm, much like the first time. Except Stiles has a lapful her body and her arms are curled around his shoulders. When she comes that time, he doesn’t stop, makes her come again and again until she doesn’t have anything left inside of her to offer to him.

They fall asleep on Lydia’s bed, tucked underneath the covers. Stiles arms are around her, so tight she could burst, but she’s comfortable. It’s exactly where she wants to be.

 

* * *

 

They hold hands in the hallways now. They bicker sometimes, they fight other times, when Lydia shuts down, shuts him out.

When they make up, though, it’s hard and reckless, and he tells her he fucking loves her until she believes it again.

Wash, rinse, repeat.

 

* * *

 

Most days, Lydia finds herself in the cemetery, where Allison is buried. She feels comfortable when she leans against the slab of granite that tells everyone how beautiful and lovely Allison argent was as a daughter, a friend, an independent woman. She swears she can hear the brunettes whispers if she dims the normal sounds of life and listens closely. She talks to Allison, apologizes for destroying her memorial, and tells her that their parents have been on dates and her mom is happy. She tells her about Stiles, about the way he treats her. The ways she’s scared to admit that she’s completely in love with him. She tells Allison about the Sheriff, about how he cares for her. She tells Allison how she gained a family with Stiles and the Sheriff.

Allison never says anything back, but whenever she leaves, she sends Scott a message.

“ _She says she loves you, too.”_

She drives mindlessly, passing by an ice cream parlor. She takes a moment to buy a cone. It’s been two months since Allison died. She’s doing a lot better, she thinks. No one’s forgotten her, they talk about her. She’s not  _really_  gone.

That night, she calls her father, has a pleasant chat with him. He tells her about his new wife, the children she has, and how he’s happy. She tells him about Stiles, how good he is to her, the way he buys her gifts and showers her with attention. She tells him she loves him. And he tells her to say it out loud.

"Boys only stick around for so long, Lydia," he says to her. She laughs and shakes her head.

"Daddy, this is the boy that’s had a crush on me since the third grade. He isn’t going anywhere."

She hears his dad whistle, but he’s chuckling. “Well, you’re definitely worth it. He wore you down?”

Lydia thinks about it. Decides that it wasn’t his decision for this to happen. It was all her. “No. I think I finally saw him as someone who was worth the trouble. That sounds ridiculous, I know, but he’s so good to me. And I realized that maybe being in love with a scrawny smartass wouldn’t be so bad. It’s definitely a change, but …”

"But what?" her father asks with curiosity.

"But I can’t see my life without him. Don’t worry, we’re not getting married prematurely, and we’ll probably go to separate colleges, break up a couple times because we’re completely opposite people. It’s hard to explain, Dad, but he always comes back to me."

He advises her to have this conversation with Stiles rather than her father. She thinks he’s right, but she doesn’t say as much. She says goodnight and gets ready for bed. She texts Stiles that they have plans tomorrow night, and he tells her, like always, that he loves her.

But she calls him, asks him to make her feel good, because seeing the words in a text message isn’t the same when she hears it, his voice wrapping around the words. His voice drops and she’s never heard so many explicit phrases leave his mouth. He has her coming in minutes.

"Stiles…" she murmurs, groggy from her orgasm, exhausted from the day. She chickens out of telling him, opts for telling him she loves his mouth. He laughs.

"Bet you’ll like it better when its between your legs."

She moans; at the rate he’s going, he could have her going again, rubbing herself off, telling him how much she misses his cock inside of her.

"Tomorrow. I’ll fuck you so hard you forget your name."

She hums, grinning like an idiot. “Yes please. Don’t be late tomorrow night, or your previous ambition of making me forget my name won’t happen.”

He chuckles. “I love you,” he says, his voice light, very Stiles-like.

"Goodnight," she answers. Hanging up the call, she drops her phone beside her, and rolls over. The exhaustion and satisfaction has her asleep in minutes.

 

* * *

 

They’re outside of the high school. Stiles is empty handed while she’s holding the banner and box of photographs and scrapbooking material. She owes Allison for what she did.

"You look nice," Stiles says, and she smiles. Of course she does, she’s wearing Dior. She doesn’t mention that to him; he couldn’t tell designer from WalMart even if he wanted to.

"Thank you," she says, grinning like an idiot. She does that often, but with Stiles, she can’t help but let her guard down.

"You made this seem really important. I was totally on time. I was actually early," he teases. She doesn’t blame him because she wants him just as badly.

“We just need to do this,” she say, gesturing to the items in her hands. “For our friend.”

Stiles smiles, takes a long, deep breath, but he nods.

They stay up all night in the school, covering themselves in paint and glue and glitter and a plethora of other mediums, and it’s adorable how Stiles’ manages to get it on his face.

They decorate the banner, with photos of Allison, of Boyd and Erica, of the kids they knew, the kids they loved and lost too soon. And when Lydia looks up at their artwork, at the way it hangs in the middle of the hallway, she thinks it’s a nice reminder, that they may be gone, but they could never be forgotten.

Cleaning up, she shakes, her whole body trembles. She braces herself, smoothes the skirt she’s wearing down her thighs. Stiles takes her hands when he notices she’s fidgeting.

"Something wrong?" he asks and he’s serious and Lydia bursts into laughter, pulling him into her so she can kiss his stupid, overly worried face.

"I love you."

His smile is so big, she knows, for once, she’s done something right. In the middle of the dark, dusty, admittedly creepy high school, she confesses what she’s been meaning to for months. He’s grinning so big it sets a fire off inside of her heart, and she doesn’t think it’ll ever go out.

He composes himself and shakes his head. “I knew that. Totally knew that.”

She rolls her eyes. “You’re ridiculous.”

He shrugs, wets his lips with the tip of his tongue. “Yeah, ridiculously in love with the most beautiful, intelligent,  _bossy_  girl in the whole world.”

She throws her head back and laughs and they tumble to the ground, lying on the cold, dirty floor. He kisses her like he means it, and she says it one again, twice, a myriad of times before she feels like it’s instilled inside of him, the knowledge that she loves him with everything she has inside of her.

"Love you, too, you know,” he replies, like it wasn’t obvious, like she didn’t know. She did, of course, but she holds onto his words, like they’re brand new.

He takes her to his house, empty of parental figures and wolf-y best friends, and he doesn’t fuck her like he promised to, but makes love to her, long and slow, until her body is screaming for him to make her shatter into pieces. And he does; he makes her body sing for him.

He holds her close, his bare body against her own. There’s light that comes through the window, and the orange-pink glow of the new morning washes over them. He kisses her and loves her with all of him. She feels whole and real and there isn’t any sadness inside of her. She has the people she needs, new windings and foundations of family and friends. She has the boy that has loved her with all of his heart, and she’s found herself loving him just as much.

She thinks Allison wouldn’t have wanted it any other way. 

 


End file.
